“We shan’t be able to surface until after dark,” said the captain. “You may find it a bit close by then.”
After luncheon the “third hand” distributed a specific against carbon dioxide poisoning.
“I should try and get some sleep,” he said.
Ian and Trimmer lay on the hard padded seats and presently slept.
Both awoke with headaches when the ship’s officers came in for dinner.
“We ought to be at your island in about four hours,” said the captain.
After dinner the sailors went back to the control-room and the engines. Ian drank. Trimmer composed a letter.
Writing did not come easily to him and this was not an easy letter to write.
I am leaving this to be sent to you in case I do not come back. When I said death or glory it wasn’t just a joke you see. I want you to know that I thought of you at the last. Ever since we met I’ve known I had found the real thing. It was good while it lasted…
He filled three pages of his message pad. He signed it after cogitation, “Gustave.” He read it through. As he did so he conjured up the image of Virginia, as he had seen her on the afternoon of his flight from Glasgow, as he had met her again in London; of Virginia not so much as he had seen her, but rather as she had seemed to see him. He re-read the letter under the imagined wide stare of those contemptuous eyes and that infinitesimal particle of wisdom that lay in Trimmer’s depths asserted itself. It just would not do, not for Virginia. He folded it small, tore it across and let the pieces fall to the steel deck.
“I think I could do with a spot,” he said to Ian.
“No, no. Later. You have responsibilities ahead.”
Time passed slowly. At last there came a sudden exhilaration. “What’s this?”
“Fresh air.”
Presently the captain came in and said: “Well, this is the time we ought to be coming in.”
“Shall I go and stir my chaps up?”
“No, leave them. I doubt if you’ll be able to land tonight.”
“Why on earth not?” asked Ian.
“I seem to have lost your bloody island.”
He left them.
“What the hell’s he up to?” said Trimmer. “We can’t go back now. They’ll all desert if they try and lock us up in those barracks again.”
The third hand came into the wardroom.
“What’s happening?” asked Ian.
“Fog.”
“Surely with all the gadgets you can find an island?”
“You might think so. We may yet. We can’t be far off.”
The ship was on the surface and the trap open. The night had been chosen with the best meteorological advice. The little empty island should have shone out under a gibbous moon. But there was no moon visible that night, no stars, only mist.
Half an hour passed. The ship seemed to be nosing about very slowly in the calm waters. The captain returned to the ward-room.
“Sorry. It looks as though we’ve got to pack it up. Can’t see anything. It may lift of course as quick as it came down. We’ve got some time in hand.”
Ian filled his glass. Soon he began to yawn. Then to doze. The next thing he knew the captain was with them again.
“O.K.,” he said. “We’re in luck. Everything is clear as day and there’s your island straight ahead. I reckon you’ve an hour and a half for the job.”
Trimmer and Ian awoke.
Sailors dragged four rubber dinghies into the open night and inflated them on deck from cylinders of compressed air. The demolition stores were lowered. Popgun Force sat two and two, bobbing gently at the ship’s side. Low cliffs were clear before them, a hundred yards distant. Popgun Force paddled inshore.
Orders were detailed and lucid. Two men, the beach-party, were to remain with the boats. The sergeant was to land the explosives and wait while Trimmer and Ian reconnoitered for the tower which, in the model, stood on the summit of the island half a mile inland. They would all be in sight of one another’s signaling-lamps all the time.
As Ian climbed awkwardly over the rubber gunwale and stood knee deep in the water, which gently lapped the deep fringe of bladder-wrack, he felt the whisky benevolently stirring within him. He was not a man of strong affections. Hitherto he had not greatly liked Trimmer. He had been annoyed at the factitious importance which seemed to surround him in Eaton Terrace. But now he felt a comradeship in arms.
“Hold up, old boy,” he said loudly and genially, for Trimmer had fallen flat.
He gave a heave. Hand in hand he and Trimmer landed on enemy territory. Popgun Force stood on the beach.
“All right to carry on smoking, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“I suppose so,” said Trimmer. “I don’t see why not. I could do with a fag myself.”
Little flames spurted on the beach.
“Well, carry on according to plan, sergeant.”
The cliffs presented no problem. They had fallen in half a dozen places and grassy slopes led up between them. Trimmer and Ian walked briskly forward and up.
“We ought to be able to see the place on the skyline,” said Trimmer rather plaintively. “It all seems much flatter than the model.”
“ ‘Very flat Norfolk,’ ” said Ian in an assumed voice.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Sorry, I was quoting from my favorite play.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing really, I suppose.”
“It’s all very well to be funny. This is serious.”
“Not to me, Trimmer.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not yet. I daresay I shall be before the evening’s out. I thought it a wise precaution to bring a bottle ashore.”
“Well, give me a go.”
“Not yet, old boy. I have only your best interests at heart. Not yet.”
He stood in the delusive moonlight and swigged. Trimmer stared anxiously about him. The gentle sound-effects of Operation Popgun, the susurrus of the beach, the low mutter of the demolition party, the heavy breathing of the two officers as they resumed their ascent, were suddenly horrifically interrupted by an alien voice, piercing and not far distant. The two officers stopped dead.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Trimmer. “What’s that? It sounds like a dog.”
“A fox perhaps.”
“Do foxes bark like that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It can’t be a dog.”
“A wolf?”
“Oh, do try not to be funny.”
“You’re allergic to dogs? I had an aunt…”
“You don’t find dogs without people.”
“Ah, I see what you mean. Come to think of it I believe I read somewhere that the Gestapo use bloodhounds.”
“I don’t like this at all,” said Trimmer. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“You’re in command, old boy. In your place, I’d just push on.”
“Would you?”
“Certainly.”
“But you’re drunk.”
“Exactly. If I was in your place I’d be drunk too.”
“Oh God. I wish I knew what to do.”
“Push on, old boy. All quiet now. The whole thing may have been a hallucination.”
“D’you think so?”
“Let’s assume it was. Push on.”
Trimmer drew his pistol and continued the advance. They reached the top of a grassy ridge, and saw half a mile to their flank a dark feature that stood out black against the silver landscape.
“There’s your tower,” Ian said.
“It doesn’t look like a tower.”
“ ‘Moonlight can be cruelly deceptive, Amanda,’ ” said Ian in his Noel Coward voice. “Push on.”
They moved forward cautiously. Suddenly the dog barked again and Trimmer as suddenly fired his pistol. The bullet struck the turf a few yards ahead but the sound was appalling. Both officers fell on their faces.
“Wh
at on earth did you do that for?” asked Ian.
“D’you suppose I meant to?”
A light appeared in the building ahead. Ian and Trimmer lay flat. A light appeared downstairs. A door opened and a broad woman stood there, clearly visible, holding a lamp in one hand, a shotgun under her arm. The dog barked with frenzy. A chain rattled.
“God. She’s going to let it loose,” said Trimmer. “I’m off.”
He rose and bolted, Ian close behind.
They came to a wire fence, tumbled over it and ran on down a steep bank.
“Sales Boches!” roared the woman and fired both barrels in their direction. Trimmer dropped.
“What’s happened?” asked Ian, coming up with him where he lay groaning. “She can’t have hit you.”
“I tripped over something.”
Ian stood and panted. The dog seemed not to be in pursuit. Ian looked about him.
“I can tell you what you tripped over. A railway line.”
“A railway line?” Trimmer sat up. “By God, it is.”
“Shall I tell you something else? There aren’t any railways where we ought to be.”
“Oh God,” said Trimmer, “where are we?”
“I rather think we’re on the mainland of France. Somewhere in the Cherbourg area, I daresay.”
“Have you still got that bottle?”
“Of course.”
“Give it to me.”
“Steady on, old boy. One of us ought to be sober and it’s not going to be me.”
“I believe I’ve broken something.”
“Well, I shouldn’t sit there too long. A train’s coming.”
The rhythm of approaching wheels swelled along the line. Ian gave Trimmer a hand. He groaned, hobbled and sank to the ground. Very soon the glow and spark of the engine came into view and presently a goods-train rolled slowly past. Ian and Trimmer buried their faces in the sooty verge. Not until it was out of sight and almost out of hearing did either speak. Then Ian said: “D’you know it’s only sixteen minutes since we landed?”
“Sixteen bloody minutes too long.”
“We’ve got plenty of time to get back to the beach. Take it easy. I think we ought to make a slight detour. I didn’t like the look of that old girl with the gun.”
Trimmer stood up, resting on Ian’s shoulder.
“I don’t believe anything is broken.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Why ‘of course.’ It might easily have been. I came the hell of a cropper.”
“Listen, Trimmer, this is no time for argument. I am greatly relieved to hear that you are uninjured. Now step out and perhaps we shall get home.”
“I ache all over like the devil.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. Step out. Soon over. Damn it, one might think it was you that was drunk, instead of me.”
It took them twenty-five minutes to reach the boats. Trimmer’s shaken body seemed to heal with use. Towards the end of the march he was moving fast and strongly but he suffered from cold. His teeth chattered and only a stern sense of duty prevented Ian from offering him whisky. They passed the place where they had left the demolition party but found it deserted.
“I suppose they did a bunk when they heard that shot,” said Trimmer. “Can’t blame them really.”
But when they came to the beach all four dinghies were there with their guards. There was no sign of the rest of the force.
“They went inland, sir, after the train passed.”
“Inland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh.” Trimmer drew Ian aside and asked anxiously: “What do we do now?”
“Sit and wait for them, I suppose.”
“You don’t think we can go back to the ship and leave them to follow.”
“No.”
“No. I suppose not. Damn. It’s bloody cold here.”
Every two minutes Trimmer looked at his watch, shivering and sneezing.
“Orders are to re-embark at zero plus sixty.”
“Plenty of time to go yet.”
“Damn.”
The moon set. Dawn was still far distant.
At length Trimmer said: “Zero plus fifty-two. I’m frozen. What the hell does the sergeant mean by going off on his own like this? His orders were to wait for orders. It’s his own look-out if he’s left behind.”
“Give him till zero plus sixty,” said Ian.
“I bet that woman’s given the alarm. They’ve probably been captured. There’s probably a howling mob of Gestapo looking for us at the moment—with bloodhounds… zero plus fifty-nine.”
He sneezed. Ian took a swig.
“Here, my dear Watson,” he said, “if I am not mistaken, come our clients—one side or the other.”
Footsteps softly approached. A dimmed torch winked the signal.
“Off we go then,” said Trimmer, not pausing to greet his returning men.
There was a flash and a loud explosion inland behind them.
“Oh God,” said Trimmer. “We’re too late.”
He scrambled for the boat.
“What was that?” Ian asked the sergeant.
“Gun-cotton, sir. When we saw the train go by, not having heard anything from the captain, I went up myself and laid a charge. Hop in quiet, lads.”
“Splendid,” said Ian. “Heroic.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I just thought we might as well show the Jerries we’d been here.”
“In a day or two’s time,” said Ian, “you and Captain McTavish and your men are going to wake up and find yourselves heroes. Can you do with some whisky?”
“Much obliged, sir.”
“For God’s sake, come on,” said Trimmer from the boat.
“I’m coming. Be of good comfort, Master Trimmer, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England as I trust shall never be put out.”
A signal was made just before dawn briefly announcing the success of the expedition. The submarine dived and the captain in his cabin began to draft his account of the naval operation. In the wardroom Ian coached Trimmer in the military version. High spirits do not come easily under water. All were content.
Major Albright, G.S.O. II (Planning), H.O.O. H.Q. was at Portsmouth to meet them when they came ashore that afternoon. He was effusive, almost deferential.
“What can we do for you? Just say.”
“Well,” said Trimmer, “how about a spot of leave? The chaps are pretty browned off with Portsmouth.”
“You’ll have to come to London.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“General Whale wants to see you. He’ll want to hear your own story, of course.”
“Well, it’s more Kilbannock’s story really.”
“Yes,” said Ian. “You’d better leave all that side of it to me.”
And later that night he told all that he had decided the general should know.
“Jolly good show. Just what was needed. Jolly good,” said the general. “We must get an M.M. for the sergeant. McTavish ought to have something. Not quite a D.S.O. perhaps but certainly an M.C.”
“You don’t think of putting me in for anything, sir?”
“No. All I want from you is a citation for McTavish. Go and write it now. Tomorrow you can see about a release to the Press.”
In his life in Fleet Street Ian had undertaken many hard tasks for harder masters. This was jam. He returned to General Whale in ten minutes with a typewritten sheet.
“I’ve pitched it pretty low, sir, for the official citation. Confined myself strictly to the facts.”
“Of course.”
“When we give it to the Press, we might add a little color, I thought.”
“Certainly.”
General Whale read:
Captain McTavish trained and led a small raiding force which landed on the coast of occupied France. On landing he showed a complete disregard of personal safety which communicated itself to his men. While carrying out h
is personal reconnaissance he came under small-arms fire. Fire was returned and the enemy post silenced. Captain McTavish pushed further inland and identified the line of the railway. Observation was kept and heavy traffic in strategic materials was noted. A section of the permanent way was successfully demolished, thereby gravely impeding the enemy’s war effort. Captain McTavish, in spite of having sustained injuries in the course of the action, successfully re-embarked his whole force, without casualties, in accordance with the time-table. Throughout the latter phase of the operation he showed exemplary coolness.
“Yes,” said General Whale. “That ought to do it.”
V
“Not out,” said Mr. Crouchback.
The small batsman at the other end rubbed his knee. Greswold, the fast bowler, the captain of Our Lady of Victory, looked at the umpire in agony.
“Oh, sir.”
“I’m sorry. I just wasn’t looking, I’m afraid. Have to give the other fellows the benefit of the doubt, you know.”
He was wearing the fast bowler’s sweater, the sleeves knotted round his throat, the body hanging over his thin shoulders, and was glad of the protection against the chill evening wind.
Greswold walked back, tossing the ball crossly from hand to hand. He took a long run; came up at a great pace; Mr. Crouchback could not quite see the position of his foot as he delivered the ball. It seemed well over the line. He considered giving a “no ball” but before he spoke the wicket was down. The little chap was out this time and no mistake. In fact, the whole side was out and the first match of the term was won. Our Lady of Victory’s champions returned to the pavilion, gathering round Greswold and thumping him on the back.
“He was out the first time,” said the wicket-keeper.
“Oh, I don’t know; Croucher didn’t think so.”
“Croucher was watching an aeroplane.”
“Anyway, what’s the odds?”
Mr. Crouchback walked home to the Marine Hotel with Mrs. Tickeridge, who had brought Jenifer and Felix to the match. They walked round by the beach and Jenifer threw sticks into the sea for Felix. Mr. Crouchback asked:
“You saw the paper this morning?”
“You mean about the raid on the French railway?”
“Yes. What a splendid young fellow this Captain McTavish must be. You saw he had been a hairdresser?”